#( theodora king. )

[theaustinstollhaus]

Byzantine history be like:

In 874 Emperor Kostalogous IV ascended to the throne after blinding sixteen nephews, and married his wife, Theodora.

However, he soon ran afoul of the Patriarch of Constantinople, Theopelagionikus, and his wife Theodora.

In 895 he was deposed by his general, Justiniapelomaxorianous II, and his wife Theodora.

This created nine new church schisms.

[littlestpersimmon]

Ar-pharazôn, Tar-mairon

[daily-all-for-the-game]

"Thea is watching from South tonight, and my father comes to all of my games. That is enough."

"Your mother would be proud of you."

"Not just of me.”

[ibrithir-was-here]

Old short story I wrote a couple of years ago and then forgot about. Remembered it the other day, gave it a bit of a brush up, and figured I'd share it. My own take on the old "Dark Snow White" retelling

Sunlight and Snowdrops

Father is sending us away tomorrow, sent for schooling at a monastery far off in the south. His new wife--The Usurper, who I will not grace with the title of queen-- tells us of the walled gardens, where pomegranates and figs grow almost year round on trees with leaves as large and tall as a man, a place where the sea still rushes up freely to meet the shore, long stretches of golden sand, forever warm to the touch.

She has talked of little else for months now, as if she and Father hope that such constant chatter will somehow soften us to the idea of our exile, make us forget the kingdom she has stolen from us, just as she has stolen his heart. And perhaps with my sisters she has somewhat succeeded . They always did take after Father, with their butter-yellow hair, and skin flushed like ripe peaches. Perhaps they were always more suited for such places. But I am my mother’s daughter, as any who look upon me can tell, and I will not be made to forget.

For how could such a flat, lurid place ever hope to compare with the beauty of my mother’s kingdom? What is a stretch of damping sea-shore to the beauty of a deep lake, forever crystallized into the finest mirror? What are walled gardens with their mad jumble of gaudy fruits to the dark towering pines, whispering to each other as the wind moves through them? What monastery could ever hope to reach heaven in the way that the mountains of the valley swell up in dark waves, to crack the egg-shell gray of the sky?

It is the blue sky of that far off place I fear most of all. What want have I for a sky of unchanging blue, suffocating in it’s immensity, with its one great burning eye beating down to peel and crack my skin in the day, and it’s thousand eyes to stare down at night? My mother’s pale sky has never once burned me, never once stared into my dreams, not with her veils of snow to protect me. Her sky is forever changing, shifting from stillness to storm on her whim. Blasting and breaking, soothing and softening, blanketing all with her beautiful covering of pure, protective white.

But my father’s new queen has poisoned its beauty for him, turning his head with her talk of salted water and coarse sand. If she wishes to retreat to such places, then I say let us be well rid of her. If my father and sisters are fools enough to follow her, to believe the lies she and her counselors and sages have spread about my mother, the rightful queen, then let them be off as well. I know the truth, I have not forgotten, I of all her daughters, have remained faithful.

There are so few of us now. So many have turned away from their true queen. But though loyalty is fragile, memory remains as firm as the ice upon the Great Lake. Despite their seeming love for the Usurper, The common people still tell my mother’s story. The Usurper thinks that because she was once one of them, a drudge plucked from obscurity by the weakness of my father’s will, that their hearts have turned to her in full.

But they can never forget my mother completely, she does not let them.

When the winds howl thick, like wolves at the door, the tale, long and wondrous and wild, is whispered between huddled crones and wide-eyed children.

A tale that takes hold of the mind and heart, as surely as the cold takes to the bones.

It begins in Winter, for indeed, how could it not?

A winter long and dark, when my grandmother, a woman wise in the old ways of the world, sat sewing at her window, looking out into the forest that spreads like an ink stain all round the castle, the snow falling heavy all around her, silencing the world as she made her request to the magic of the woods.

Three drops of her own blood she spilt to gain her heart's desire, a child for her childless king. And a child she received, a beauty such as never been seen. Hair black as the trees of the forest, lips as red as the blood she had given, and skin as white as the purest snow. A child of the winter woods, born on winter’s darkest night.

A life had been granted, and so was a life taken away. My grandmother lived long enough to bless my mother with her name, and the king, who once had so longed for a child, was now too grieved to bear the sight of his new daughter. And so my mother was given over to the wife of the castle’s woodsman, recently blessed with a child of her own, and who, most importantly, lived in a cottage on the edge of the woods, far, far away from the castle grounds, and her mourning father’s eye.

For seven years my mother grew up in the care of the woodsman’s family, as loved as if she were their own blood daughter, and the girls loved each other as sisters. They spent many days beneath the shadows of the trees, and learned much from the woods. They say even then, before she had come into her power, that the creatures and spirits of that place knew my mother as part of their blood, knew that something of her had come from something within them, and protected her for it.

It was in the winter of her fifth year that she met my father, a lad of nine, trapped within an enchanted bearskin. She and her foster sister brought him into the warmth of their cabin, saving his life, and each winter for three years after, he returned. She told me once that those winters were some of the happiest memories of her life, surrounded by those she loved in the shelter of the snows.

It was in summer that her sorrows came.

It was in summer that my mother discovered the gnome that had cursed her bear, and by his death my father was freed from his enchantment, only to then return to his own far off kingdom. It was in summer that my mother was parted from her foster family, recalled to court at last--only to find her own usurper on her father’s arm.

The people of the land adored the lady who had come to them out of the sun-drenched south, calling her their Summer Queen, praising her for the abundance that had blessed the lands since she had wed the king. And surely there was never a woman so beautiful. They say that her hair flowed like sunlight itself down her shoulders until it touched the floor, braided all over with flowers of every hew, and her eyes were as blue and bright as an August morning.

My mother said she could feel those eyes trying to melt her the moment she was brought before them.

My mother was not at court long. One day, the Summer Queen surprised her with a visit from her foster-father, and though he smiled at her, his eyes seemed grim and troubled. They traveled together down to the edge of the woods, far from the eyes of any in the castle--and there he took out the knife, carved all over with flowers, to cut out her heart.

(He claimed later, when the coup was over, and my mother restored to the throne, that he had only done so to protect his family, his own little daughter. My mother granted him the same pity he had shown her, and sent him into the woods, alone and unarmed. I do not know to this day if he fell to the animals or the cold that finally came, but by all accounts, he was never seen again.)

My mother, for her part, wandered for months alone beneath the boughs of the woods. The animals did not harm her, the woods knew its own, but she dared not venture near the edges where human souls still delt, fearful now that any might betray her to the Summer Queen. And as remarkable as she was, she was still only a child, and had never had to care for herself before, and she longed for the cheer and company of creatures like herself.

More than that, the heat of a seemingly endless summer wore at her. August passed into September and September to October and on, with nary a change to be seen. The leaves on the trees remained green, and did not fall. The rivers ran along as full and fat as ever, though there was no snow left to feed them. The sun felt like a great eye, searching for her beneath the sheltering shadows of the forest. Only at night did she find respite, and she longed for the relief of a winter that never came.

Farther and farther she wandered, seeking someplace where she might find some sign of chance, some shelter from the daylight that stretched longer and longer. At last, she found herself upon the slopes of the farthest mountain. Her feet were worn ragged from wandering, and her tongue was cracked from the heat, but with the last of her strength, she managed to stagger to the summit, and there, in a hollow tucked into the dark shadows of the peaks, so dark that even the hottest of summers could not fully touch them, she found snow.

And there her strength finally deserted her. She lay down upon the snow as contentedly as if it had been a feather bed, and might have slipped into the endless sleep beneath that cold coverlet, had it not been for the little men.

The frozen-beards, the valley people call them. Dwarfs that live in the fields of ice upon the mountains, having little to do with the valley people. They delight in the cold, they are said to be able to call up snow storms to hide their homes,and in winter they might be seen galloping along in the wake of an avalanche as happy as a child at play. But for all the ice of their beards, they are warm of heart, and they took the half-frozen child into their home as readily as if she had been one of their own.

For seven years, my mother at last knew peace. In the caves of the mountains she learned much of the songs and stories and skill of her new family. She learned the shaping of swords and the setting of gems,and the summoning of wind and fog, and was happy.

But nothing lasts forever, and at last, summer found her patch of hidden winter.

The king of a far-off land had proclaimed his intention to visit our valley kingdom, which had grown in renown-- and profit-- thanks to the summer that seemed trapped within the crown of our mountain valley. The rivers and Great Lake were never clear of vessels shipping goods out and bringing gold in. Both people and purses grew fat from the bounty, and basked in the seemingly endless sunshine.

There was one stain however, upon the glorious reign of the Summer Queen, though it was only spoken of in whispers, for it would not do to complain of such small misfortune within the wake of so many blessings.

The Draining Sickness.

It came on quickly, overnight in some cases. Those afflicted withered away, drained, pale and almost bloodless, like unwatered plants beneath the noon-day sun. No one knew how it spread, it seemed to only strike one village at a time; and oddly the most healthy and comely succumbed first, as if offended by their vitality and beauty.

Fate however, seemed inclined to some mercy. For each village that was stricken with loss soon found itself blessed with an overflowing of crops and commerce, as if Death felt some blood money was owed.

It was not only the young and lovely who were taken though. The old King, my mother’s father, was struck down on Summer’s Eve itself— along with seven young girls from each of the surrounding villages. But the grief over these deaths was short-lived, such was the glory of the days that followed, the golden sunlight drying the tears from the cheeks of the mourners even as they fell. Indeed, it seemed hard to grieve anything beneath the sun of that long, long summer. The Summer Queen, clothed in green and yellow and scarlet and blue, wore only a black ribbon around her neck for mourning, and none falted her.

It was then that the rumors came, rumors that the visiting king was not only there to see the beauty of the valley, but of its women as well. Indeed, those coming before his entourage said that he was seeking out one who was rumored to be the Fairest of them All.

The Summer Queen, shining almost to match the blazing endless sun, was more than happy to aid him in his search. And it was undoubtedly her efforts to ensure her own success in fulfilling the terms of his quest which led her to discover that my mother’s heart--which she thought she had devoured seven years ago, at the start of her endless summer --still beat it’s red,red blood within her snow white breast.

A grand celebration was proclaimed in the king’s honor, a festival of such magnificence as had never been seen outside of the old stories, and travelers came from all the surrounding lands to take part, ply their trades, and sell their wares. Up and over the mountains they came, and several passed by the cave where my mother dwelt.

Was it any wonder that my mother, still so young, having found a measure of peace in that snowy valley which soothed the burns upon her soul, and made her long to return somewhat to the world of men and look once more upon human faces, took in good faith the laces, brought by from far by the cargo boats; the comb, carved and painted so cleverly with a myriad flower; and finally, most beautiful blood-red summer apple, grown in her father’s own orchard?

When my mother woke again-- to the face of my father, returned from afar at last to find the girl who had freed him from his curse, and had now freed her in return-- she was not so naive.

My father had brought many men with him, and the people of the valley had grown slow and complacent in their bounty. When his men came with their swords, and the frozen-beards called up their icy winds, and my mother rode down upon the capitol in a sleigh made from her own glass coffin, they were not prepared to withstand the onslaught. Soon enough all had either fallen to their knees —or fallen where they stood.

The Summer Queen danced at my mother’s wedding, in shoes crafted by my mother herself, in the art taught to her by her foster-fathers. Shoes which returned upon the Summer Queen all the heat of the sun which she had stolen by her sacrifices and bloody rites.

Then my mother took up her rightful throne, and winter came at last to the valley.

My mother and father were wed in the open courtyard, as the snow fell like diamonds all around them, and all agreed they had never seen a more beautiful sight. My mother’s foster sister, who had remained loyal to her true queen, was reunited with her, and wed to my father’s brother. Children followed both of them after, and for many years, the natural order of the seasons came and went.

It was on my seventh birthday that my mother found the mirror, tucked behind a tapestry woven with fruit and flowers, in the abandoned tower of the Summer Queen.

No one knows where the Summer Queen obtained the mirror. Some have claimed it was a wedding gift from her godfather, a fallen priest who had taken supper at the Scholomance. Others that she crafted it herself, from water and moonlight, on a witch’s sabbath. But my mother told me once that the mirror was only a shard of a greater whole, and that the Summer Queen had only happened upon it, and though her own powers were great, her vain and narrow mind only able to discover the basest powers of the mirror.

But my mother-- born of blood and snow and forest, learned in the lore of the mountain folk, the perfect inversion in shape and soul of the Summer Queen-- could feel at once what was before her. She had higher aspirations than to know of mere beauty. After all, why should she trouble herself over such trivial questions?

She was, and is, the Fairest of them All.

No, my mother asked for vision and clarity, and the mirror readily supplied, showing her the darkness that lay in the hearts of men, the twisted, choking desire she had already tasted in an apple grown of blood and summer heat, and she knew what she must do.

That night, on Summer’s Eve itself, the snows began to fall.

The winters lie heavy on our land now, as heavy as summer once did. Our borders have shrunken back to what they were before the days of the Summer Queen. The rivers she once choked with cargo boats and merry-makers now flow freely beneath the protection of their own glass coffins. The flowers that once crowned her traitorous head have not been seen in many a year. The mountains are eternally capped with snow, the frost-beards no longer trapped within their narrow valley. Our kingdom, once vibrantly flushed with the blood of those taken to feed an endless summer, is now white and pure, cleansed by the endless falling snow.

My mother saved her kingdom from a blood soaked opulence, from a land made rich and fat off the hearts of their own, and yet they still turned upon her. Called her witch, demon, and worse. In the end, as the purifying snows fell heavier and heavier, The Usurper-- covered in ash from the fires she’d set to hold the snows at bay-- besieged the capitol. With her brother at her side, with an army of thred-bare shop-keepers and merchants laid low, she came up the Great Road with as much pride and assurance as if the crown sat already upon her head.

My aunt, foster-sister of my mother, and others who remained loyal, who knew their true queen for the power that she was, fought back. Indeed, my aunt and the wolves that answered to her slew The Usurper’s brother upon the very threshold. But the faithful were soon overwhelmed. The few who survived were driven into the woods, seeking the shelter that had been granted to my mother. The Usurper had the trees set ablaze, calling out that the dark powers of the forest would not be allowed to aid the followers of a witch. Her army came right up to the palace gates. And my father, my dear, foolish, fearful, traitorous father, who’s heart had been turned by The Usurper’s treacherous lies--himself unbarred the door for her.

My mother did not flee, whatever they say. She who had vowed to never be driven by anyone again, she who had bent the very elements to her will. She did not flee before The Usurper’s feeble army of ragged townsfolk and treacherous palace guards,even as they tore up her portraits, burned her books, and smashed her mirror into a thousand pieces.

No,they were not granted that victory. When she fell, she fell of her own accord, and her white gown sparkled like snow-flakes in the sun as she dived, down from the window at which her mother had once sat sewing, down, down into the blazing, waiting embrace of the woods that had heard her mother’s prayer.

When the fires at last burned themselves out, they found my mother’s body, ash covered, but untouched by the flames, as if even they could not bear to besmirch her beauty. She was placed once more in the glass coffin that bore her name, and it sat in state for three days in the royal chapel. She was, after all, a king’s daughter, and wife of another. On the third day, it was gone. Some claim she was properly buried, far beneath the ground, with a hawthorn branch in her heart. Others say that the rebels took the coffin, and burned it till the glass was melted down into a lump as black as her hair had been. The faithful say that the frost-beards came in the dark of the night, and reclaimed their daughter, carrying the coffin up once more to the high valley where my father once found her, to await the day when she will awaken again.

If she has not so already.

For though my mother’s crown sits on The Usurper’s head, and her daughters are to be sent to the far corners of the earth, in hopes the heat of the sun and the scent of the flowers will drive her from their hearts, the winter still lays heavy upon the land, and the wind has not ceased to blow since the day that she fell.

Father is sending us away tomorrow, and I do not think he shall be long in following. So many have left already. He longs for the shores of his youth, where the spring and summer follows after the winter. My uncle, his brother, has already returned there, with many of his children. The common folk are leaving as regularly as they can clear the mountain passes, which is not easy in these times. The birds and gentler animals left years ago. Soon, it will be only the wolves that prowl the dark woods, edging closer and closer into the towns as more and more people abandon my mother’s frozen kingdom. They say that the spectre of my aunt can be seen running with the wolves sometimes, when the moon is obscured by clouds, red cloak trailing behind her like blood on the snow.

They can send me away, but I shall find my way back. A thousand’s flowers scents could not make me forget the smell of the pines, a thousand bird’s songs could not drown out the howl of the wind. The bluest of skies cannot burn away the purest of snows. Not all the mirror’s pieces were ground to powder. I managed to save one, one single shard reclaimed in the chaos that shattered my childhood. I have kept it close, reworked and polished it, set it into a clasp on a chain that rests even now against my heart, hidden beneath my dress so that The Usurper cannot see. Already I have learned much, not as much as my mother, I do not claim that, but enough

And when the time is right, I know it shall lead me home. Past the guards that will be placed at the door, past the gates that will be barred, over the rivers and hills and far away, back to my mother’s mountain. And there I know I shall find her again, hair as black as night, lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow; riding in her sleigh of glass thru the eternal winter air to meet me.

[kazu-naito]

romance club couples as taylor swift songs ✨

[part 2]

amala x amrit (kali: call of darkness)

theodora x john (theodora)

mc x reinhold (heart of trespia)

mc x mustafa (the desert rose)

mc x king louis (vying for versailles)

mc x chad (love sin and evil)

laia/lale x leo/aslan (dracula: a love story)

nikkal x niall (the flower from tiamat's fire)

mc x alexandre (vying for versailles)

amala x killian (kali: call of darkness)

part 1 part 3

[tabithaxking]

always have, always will. (self para) where: francis and yelena king's house, fisher cove when: october 29th 2024

[ tw: dementia, illness ]

The gate creaked in the same way it always did, the sound of rusted metal on metal that always signalled an arrival. There was a time where Tabitha would sit outside on the porch and hope that sound meant her mother was coming to get her. But now, the sound went unnoticed by the blonde that trudged up the pathway towards her grandparents house. The routine was so engrained in her that it felt like second nature to walk up the steps and let herself into the quiet house.

After a month of Theo being at school, Tabitha finally felt like she wasn't on high alert from the minute her alarm went off in the mornings. There wasn't ever any tears or tantrums trying to get Theo ready. She'd taken to it like a duck took to water and Tabitha's relief was immeasurable, but the feeling was short-lived.

Historically, when one area of her life was going okay, it generally meant that another area was on the verge of falling apart.

The familiarity of her grandparent's house had felt tainted lately. Looking around the carpeted living room, she no longer saw the place had been the only home she'd ever known. It was no longer the safe space that it'd been. Instead, her eyes passed over half-eaten tv dinners and stacks of unopened mail. The remnants of a man just managing to keep it together.

Her grandmother's dementia had gotten significantly worse in the past few months. It wasn't recently that her living independently was called into question. All because of a bout of food poisoning.

In Yelena's defence, she thought she had put the chicken in the fridge. It hadn't been on the counter for that long. But her mind had been playing tricks on her for the past year. Smoke alarms would randomly go off even though she'd only put something in the oven for a few minutes. Businesses in town moved without saying anything.

There were times where she was sure her daughter was here, walking through the front door like she hadn't left at seventeen and never returned. But in a blink of an eye, Tabitha was standing right where Angelica had been. It was only because they looked alike, that's why she'd gotten confused. That's all.

Things like this had happened more and more frequently until it was hard to ignore.

The chicken incident had been the last straw. Francis had been so sick after eating the half cooked poultry, Yelena had to drive him to the hospital. Except she couldn't quite remember where it was. The whole ordeal had led to some tough conversations. And now this house had lost the certain brightness it always had. The kind that only Yelena could bring out of it.

The facility that now housed her grandmother was only the next town over and Francis had driven to visit his wife every day since she'd been admitted. Tabitha had only visited a few times. Never with Theo. The first time had been so confronting, she'd vowed to keep her daughter far away. It wasn't worth tainting all the years of good memories Theo had of Yelena, only to watch her slowly deteriorate. Tabitha wished she didn't have to watch it too.

Sighing to herself, Tabitha put her bag down near the hall table and walked into the kitchen. It wasn't quite as bad as she was expecting. Francis had clearly only been eating freezer meals. The plastic containers piled up on top of the trash can, threatening to spill over. One sudden movement, one more ounce of pressure and the whole thing would topple. A catastrophic mess. Tabitha looked at it and knew exactly how it felt.

Grabbing a trash bag from under the sink, she got to work. In under an hour, she'd picked up all the garbage, done the dishes and had already had one load of laundry out to dry while another ran through the spin cycle. The months of cleaning houses had made her wildly efficient at cleaning. It was the only coping mechanism she had that felt mildly healthy.

A car pulled into the driveway as she was tackling the fridge. Mouldy vegetables and expired condiments found their way into her near overflowing pile of rubbish.

"You here, Squeaks?"

"—Kitchen!" She called out in response, throwing away a desiccated bag of green sludge. Likely a bag of spinach that had been opened once and then left to wither.

Her grandfather made his way into the kitchen with a loud sigh, the moans and groans of a man in his late sixties. The last few months had aged him. Lines deepened on his face every day, bags under his eyes turned a deep shade of purple from the sleep he obviously wasn't having. From the perfectly made bed upstairs and the state of the living room, Tabitha assumed her grandfather had been falling asleep in front of the TV every night.

"You don't need to be doing all this," Francis complains as he sees what Tabitha has been up to. "Don't you have your own place to clean?"

Tabitha almost snaps back but bites her tongue, going deeper into the fridge.

"It's fine, I wanna help." She couldn't make things better, she couldn't bring back her grandmother's memory. But she could do this.

"Come sit down," her grandfather said as he dragged a chair across the linoleum.

Despite wanting to protest, the blonde straightens from her kneeling position, abandoning her mission and sitting at the kitchen table.

Crossing her arms across her chest, her gaze rests on the knotted wood. Her eyes would meet anything but her grandfather who she knew was studying her. "She was pretty good today," Francis tells her, unprompted.

Tabitha had obviously been wondering in the moments of silence but just couldn't bring herself to ask. A wave of gratitude rushes through her that she didn't have to wrestle the words out of her mouth.

"That's good." Chewing on her lower lip, she asks. "Anything from the doctors?"

A new treatment, a wonder drug, a undiscovered cure.

Francis gives a head shake with a side of sympathy for his granddaughter. She only half-sees it, her gaze unmoved from the table.

"We have to get you some proper food," Tabitha perks up, wanting so desperately to divert the conversation in another direction. "Those tv dinners will give you a heart attack. I'll grab some groceries for you after I pick Theo up."

"I don't need you mothering me, Squeaks. I can take care of myself."

A snort. "Tell that to my pile of garbage." She motions to it dramatically. "Your ass groove is moulded into the couch."

"I'm just adjusting to your gran not being here," he implores. "I haven't had to take care of myself for 40-somethin' years. Give an old man a break, will ya?"

Tabitha knew to read between the lines. That not everyone could push their feelings down so deep to simply keep going through the motions. To force themselves not to feel the hurt and the pain because how could they continue on if they did?

She always wondered how deep this well inside her was. This endless black cavern. Her whole life she'd been stuffing feelings down it, waiting to hit the bottom. It hadn't happened yet, but some ominous feeling loomed around it now. Like it was only a matter of time before it overflowed and drowned her in the flood.

"I have to get candy for the trick-or-treaters anyway," Tabitha insists. "I'll grab you some too. You know those McLachlan kids will egg your house if you don't have any."

Francis only grumbled in response, knowing that her granddaughter wouldn't relent. A long silence filled the kitchen, the unspoken words were a heavy weight, thickening the air like smoke.

"It's okay to be sad, kid—" Francis tells her, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it. Francis King, the ex-naval captain who had braved battle and rough seas, spoke to his granddaughter like she was a wild creature he was trying to calm. Something he was unsure wouldn't hiss or bite or bolt if he pushed too hard. "You don't gotta be strong for everyone all the time. That's not your job."

Tabitha's eyes flickered up to him sharply. Her jaw only unclenched to announce her departure. "I have to pick up Theo." Pushing her chair away from the table, she bent down to grab the garbage bag. "We'll be back around 4-ish. Let's go to the diner, get you a proper meal." The look on her grandfather's face was one of disappointment, but not of surprise. She'd had never been one to put her feelings on display, unless it was anger. That she expressed very well.

It was only when she was back in her car, hands white knuckled at ten and two on the steering wheel, did Tabitha think about letting herself cry. A deep guttural sob bounced inside her chest, wanting to crack open her chest like the monster in Alien. But she wouldn't, she couldn't. Once she started, there was no telling if it would ever stop and Tabitha had too much to keep going for to let herself break down now. There were double shifts and playdates, homework and bills, costumes to sew and grandparents to feed.

The feelings would come out eventually, whether she was ready or not. The years of resentment and suffering would rise like the tide, build like a wave over the shore. Tabitha only hoped that it wouldn't destroy her when it all came crashing down.

[heavyarethecrowns]

[charlotte-of-wales]

The Greek Royal Family attends the funeral service for King Constantine II at the Athens Cathedral Service | January 16th, 2023

[trhor]

Previous | Beginning | Next

Then - 5th September 2061

[hiloedits]

— zachtheo headers

like or reblog if you use/save.

© hiloedits on twitter.

[ifreakingloveroyals]

[thatsprettylane]

Can you imagine??

[weirdlookindog]

"It was King Solomon's old throne that Iblees was sitting on" - Theodora Du Bois

Lawrence Sterne Stevens - The Devil's Spoon

(Famous Fantastic Mysteries - June 1948)

[wormwoodandhoney]

Do you have any recommendations for any cozy or spooky (not scary) autumn book?

sorry this has lived in my inbox for 45 years, i have been ~*depressed*~!! here are my recommendations for spooky not scary and cozy books! if you have triggers, please check for them before diving in, as even cozy spooky books might sneak something in!

the shady hollow series by juneau black: literally soooo cozy. a mystery series set in a beatrix potter-type world in which an intrepid fox reporter solves various murders in her small woodland town.

spirit hunters by ellen oh: a middle grade spooky story about a young girl with the ability to see ghosts, and how she must save her younger brother.

garlic and the vampire by bree paulsen: a sweet graphic novel about an anxious anthropomorphic bulb of garlic who must save her friends in the garden from a vampire.

cackle by rachel harrison: more "adult" than the other books on this list, this is about a woman who, after a bad breakup, moves to a small town and befriends a mysterious older woman who has untold powers. note: this is not sapphic and it should have been!!

the strange case of the alchemist's daughter by theodora goss is about the daughters of jekyll and hyde and the club they form with other historical horror daughters.

the butcher of the forest by premee mohamed: definitely the darkest on this list, but i wanted to give you a darker option without gore (or at least without much gore). this is a novella about a wild, dangerous forest that has taken the king's young children, and the older woman tasked to save them, as she is the only person to have ever made it back out.

on my own cozy tbr this october: practical potions and premeditated murder, chaos at the lazy bones bookshop, the village library demon-hunting society

[starogeorgina]

𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧

Warnings: Hints of violence, character death, swearing

Pairing: Aegon ii Targaryen × OC

1.11

As you stand atop the hill of Rhaenys, watching as the masses are hurled like cattle towards the red keep, you hear the distant roar of a dragon approaching. The sky darkens as Vhagar swoops in from above, her dark scales glistening in the sunlight. It was hard to believe that the she-dragon was once ridden by Queen Visenya Targaryen during Aegon’s conquest, and after she died of a sudden illness, Prince Baelon Targaryen was the legendary dragon's next rider, followed by the late lady Laena Velaryon. A war-hardened dragon such as Vhagar deserves better than to be ridden by a kinslayer.

As you witness the dragons finally land on top of another hill, a feeling of anger begins to burn inside of you. You think about all the lives lost, all the families torn apart, and all the destruction that has been wrought upon House Targaryen. Your heart aches with grief and rage, and you vow to do whatever it takes to protect your remaining children.

As the chaos around you subsides, you feel a wave of exhaustion and grief wash over you.

Aeron, Harys, Aegon, Lucerys.

The weight of the losses your family has suffered, including the destruction caused by your own brother—your husband—becomes almost too much to bear. You collapse to the ground, tears streaming down your face as you mourn for the lives lost and the damage done.

Aeron, Harys, Aegon, Lucerys.

You mount Dallax and fly closer to the keep. As you continue to witness the coronation about to start taking place in the carriage that Aemond would be in, your rage begins to consume you. You can no longer see reason or think clearly, and all you can focus on is your desire for revenge against Aemond, which overtakes all logic.

As you contemplate the weight of the news, a dark thought begins to take hold in your mind. The memory of your firstborn son, lover, and nephew being killed by your husband, the new ‘king’, floods your thoughts. He had taken everything from you, including the life of the only person who would truly understand your pain, the only person who would be able to reason with you.

Dallax circles the castle a few times, letting out deafening roars and belching plumes of fire that set the empty grounds below ablaze, and before your mind fully comprehends your next instructions, you direct Dallax towards the part of the castle where Aemond’s quarters are and utter the words no dragon rider should say so easily.

“Dracarys.”

—

You arrive at Dragonstone, where your sister's army is waiting outside, ready to sacrifice their lives fighting for their queen.

The silence is eerie, and the only sound you hear is the gasps of those who see you walking through the hallways with dirt, ash, and blood covering your clothes, face, hair, and body as you make your way towards the chambers of the painted table. Hopefully Rhaenyra would be there so you could confess the outrageous act of war you had just committed. When the wind begins to blow harshly, the smell of smoke and death fills your nostrils, making you gag. You try to push forward, continuing your search for Rhaenyra.

As you approach the door to the room, you see two knights guarding it, one of them being Ser Erryk. Soon as the knight notices you, he swings the door open and calls for Prince Daemon, announcing your arrival.

As you wander through the room, you start to notice that nobody standing around the painted table can make eye contact with you. Lords avoid you, and even Princess Rhaenyes and Lord Corlys seem to be shying away from you. You start to feel a sense of unease and wonder what has happened in your absence.

A lump forms in your throat, and your voice begins to crack as you try to speak. Tears flow down your face uncontrollably as you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Empty the room!” Daemon barks before coming to stand in front of you, "Theodora."

Your words turn to sobs as you explain everything that happened to the best of your ability. “It’s my fault they’re dead,” you croak. “I tried to save Lucerys; I did; I tried to reach him in time."

Overwhelmed by emotion, you fall to your knees and continue to cry. You feel a deep sense of despair and desperation; the only thing keeping you from completely losing your mind was the need to hold and comfort your daughters. Your body shakes with sobs, and you feel helpless and lost.

Daemon crouches down in front of you and tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him. “When word of what happened at Storm’s end reached Dragonstone, Rhaenyra immediately left to search for her son's body, but fishermen recovered a boy from the sea, a boy they swear they saw fall from the sky before his dragon crashed into the water.”

You can hardly believe what you're hearing. After all the devastation and loss, the news that your nephew may survive brings a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness. But you know it’s nothing more than your mind playing tricks on you; Lucerys was dead. You saw him die.

“He unbuckled his belt and leaped from Arrax, but Lucerys has been unconscious since he was brought home. He still may not survive.”

Tears roll down your cheek. “He’s alive?”

Daemon nods slowly.

“My son? Is he alive?"

“He is, princess.”

You fall forward and let out a loud wail. Aeron was alive; you’d get to see your sweet boy again. “Thank the gods." You notice tears forming in Daemon’s eyes when you lean back again. “And Aegon?”

“Badly wounded, he used his body to shield—Aeron.”

You scramble to stand again, but the pain in your stomach prevents you from doing so. Daemon offers you his hand to help you stand. “How bad is it?”

“The maesters say it’s pretty severe on one side.”

You wipe your eyes, smudging the soot on your face. “I need to see Aeron and my girls. Where are they?”

“I think it would be best if you bathed first.”

Exhausted, you huff, “I do not care about my appearance, uncle; I just want to see—”

“And you will,” he says, cutting you off. Daemon calls two servants in, ordering them to prepare your bath and to summon the maester. “Trust me, you need to bathe and be seen by a maester first.”

“No, I need to see my children, then, Aegon.”

“Aegon is at high risk of infection; they won’t allow you to see him in this state." Although his tone is harsh, there’s a hidden pain behind Daemon's eyes. “Your children will be scared if they see you like this.”

“I need to see them before talking to Rhaenyra.”

Daemon steps closer to you, letting out a deep sigh. “You can explain setting parts of the red keep on fire once you’ve seen them and been checked by a maester.”

Reluctantly, you agree.

—

The prince consort grits his teeth as he stares at the table in front of him. How many of these houses would change their allegiance now that they knew what Aemond was capable of? The lords and ladies of Westeros would say whatever it took to save their people. Not that the prince blamed them; deep down, he knew he’d commit any sin or break any oath to protect his family.

“You didn’t tell her.”

Hearing the hints of a scalding tone in Princess Rhaenys’s voice, Daemon clicks his tongue. “No, I didn’t.”

“She will find out one way or another.”

“I am aware,” he says sharply.

Rhaenys has been the voice of reason many times during council meetings; however, the princess wasn’t shy about calling others out, and now wasn’t the correct time to approach the prince, not when he was trying to figure out the blacks next move.

“Why did she need a maester?”

Daemon turns to face her, the look on his face making it clear he was already disinterested in the conversation. “The princess—”

“The princess?” Rhaenys chuckles. “What was it called her before? An insufferable Hightower cunt, I believe?”

“That was before she sacrificed the life growing inside her to try and save Lucerys.” He looks over Rhaenys shoulder and watches as the sun dips below the horizon. “Theodora’s bump is gone, and as she doesn’t have the child with her, I'm presuming the babe died. So I thought it was best not to say anything until she’s seen by the maester.”

As Daemon’s words sink in, a fleeting smile forms on the older woman's lips. It's rare for anyone to see the prince's softer side, let alone in the midst of such turmoil and tragedy. But Daemon showing sympathy to a girl he once considered an enemy was a reminder that not all is lost. Although not for a second did she envy him, as shortly Prince Daemon would need to inform his young niece that her daughter and sister were dead.

[tabithaxking]

Tabitha King as Phoebe Bridgers & Theo King as Chappell Roan — with @luckylewis as Billie Eilish for Halloween Trick or Treating 2024